GeekForce

I’ve been a best man three times; in one the man (my friend) died.  The other two are strong marriages with a total of four children my childrens’ ages.  

I originally had four Godchildren, but one cruelly died, so now I’m immensely proud to have three. 

The oldest was almost 14 when I was almost 22, so we’re not too different in ages.  She grew up in Prince Edward Island and then hooked up with an awesome guy, split for Vancouver to be with him and have two prety babies. She made two astonishing albums and appeared all three times in the Lillith Fair (all lady artists in early 90’s in Vancouver - Excellent music, by the way, hers AND at them). 

My next one is now 22; she was 20 months old when her daddy died, and didn’t have to watch me grasp the casket handle.  I mention him below.

The last is a now 8-year-old (he was four) who’s mom dated my friend at the time.  That is what you call an honor.  She (he) moved to Rochester, NY to hook up with her (different) lover and we ’e’ so I can forward messages to (fourth grade) Ryan.  I sent him twelve Matchbox cars, five of them vintage, on each of the 12 days of Christmas, ‘06 (but the Post Office kept getting screwed up and sent two at a time a couple of times).   

I’ve carried a casket handle five times (one Presbyterian, one Unitarian (MAN I miss him-he was my roommate and I should have, but didn’t, tell somebody how sick he became), two Episcopal, and one Catholic).  Ideally, I should have carried one more–equal parts Episcopalian, Jewish, and non-triune, atheistic Humanist.   I was only fifteen, and I can remember my terror that someone would assume me willing.  I certainly would have if I were a year or two older, but I wasn’t.  I didn’t get to write what I’d say, but didn’t have to say anything anyway, at least in front of anybody except my mother. 

I have honored him more than any other other, and always mention his unusual name on my Christmas letters that I’m never convinced anybody reads.  Ditto the other with the other people herein.  The act of cremation saved me from grasping even more handles. 

Death’s a part of life, but handling it ‘properly’ and putting it away on a back shelf comes with no instruction manual as to how.  The absence of such a textbook throughout the years lends me a rather haunted/hollow look. This is that which essentially keeps me single, suspended in the never-to-acclimate. 

I’ve a damn blue ring of fire around my heart, to borrow an Oogaloa prayer phrase (minus the word “damn”, of course) stemming from something deeper and longer lasting.

On a brighter note, though, I’ve become an expert at faking nearly all of it, and by now I’m rather good at it. 

Except, of course, women instantly see through it like it is a clean pane of glass.  

I’ll finish by quoting Janis Joplin:

 ”I look pretty bad, and remind myself of that too much.  But then, I look in the mirror, remind myself of all that I’ve been through, and then I stop being so hard on myself.”